


The Boots, To Begin With

by kayliemalinza



Category: Sherlock Holmes (2009)
Genre: Crossdressing, Denial, Gen, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-30
Updated: 2011-12-30
Packaged: 2017-10-28 13:51:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/308530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kayliemalinza/pseuds/kayliemalinza
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mary’s going to help him crossdress properly this time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Boots, To Begin With

“This is never going to work,” says Holmes. He yanks his foot snippishly from the velvet boot and from Mary’s fingers, which are holding it.

Mary leans back on her heels, or else on the voluminous cushion of her skirts which surround her heels and the rest of her legs. Holmes has come to realize that the mechanics of motion of the human body are drastically altered by current ladies fashion in England. Daily exertions are a more athletic affair than he had previously assumed. He has been watching Mary’s movements very carefully of late, and taking notes.

Mary exhales in the measured way which is second nature to those confined in corsets. Holmes has yet to graduate from a stiff bodice to something full-boned, but even so respiratory adaptations have been necessary. His current attire is quite forgiving—a snug chemise of soft cotton—so he must employ his imagination. He holds himself as if there is a pressure about his ribcage and breathes in time with Mary.

The fine hair above her ears has fallen astray of her bun. Her fingers are red and corrugated with the imprint of that velvet heel. “Perhaps if you were to order a custom pair,” Mary says. “It’s only that shoes are generally worn tight, and your feet are so much larger than mine.”

“Not too much larger,” Holmes says. The phrase leaps from his lips before he has quite decided to utter it. No matter; it is a solid truth, and he will not disclaim it.

Mary sets the boot aside, silently and with deliberation. There is a faint upturn at the corner of her mouth, which she hides by turning her face at the very moment the curve deepens. Mrs Watson is, of course, an extremely well-mannered lady; yet Holmes finds that in his experience, a suppressed scowl is the more natural response to such a gibe. He shall have to examine her personality more closely.

Mary’s face, when she returns it to his view, is mild and polite. Of far greater interest is the slenderness of her neck. The shallow curve from shoulder to the mastoid process is more graceful than it normally appears, and there is a peculiar beguiling attitude to the delicate grey shadow couched between the manubrium and the sternal ends of each clavicle. It must be the result of the cut of her neckline; a well-tailored costume can disguise and emphasize any feature one desires. Holmes will take all necessary pains when selecting his dress.

“I have a pair of gusset boots which are of a larger size. I am accustomed to wear them with thick stockings for riding,” says Mary. “The skirts should cover them well enough, if you are dressing modestly.” She gazes up at Holmes from beneath her lashes. Her eyes are narrower than those of the ideal ingenue, yet catch the lamplight in an alluring fashion. They are quite like two gems, having been polished with the utmost care and set into her sockets.

Holmes observes such things purely rationally, of course. He means only to conclude that Mary Watson nee Morstan has learnt the woman’s trade well enough. If only Watson had come to Holmes for aid earlier, before he fell irretrievably into the romantic trap.

“Of course the skirts will be long enough,” says Holmes. He squares his shoulders missishly. “I will be the very picture of chastity.”

Mary’s laugh floats softly through the intimate room. “The proof is in the pudding, Mr Holmes.” She rises to her feet. The shift in balance is smooth, practiced. Holmes charts the movement of her limbs beneath the skirts.

Mary moves over to the settee with a womanly grace which owes more to sartorial influence than the physiology or psychology of her sex. “Your figure is hardly feminine,” she says, and lifts the corset from the settee. It is a fully-boned thing, made of sensible dun-coloured linen and minimal ornament. The laces dangle nearly to the floor. “We’ll have to tightlace you.”

Her smile is now unmistakeable.

Holmes shall have to be on his guard.


End file.
